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john-hillPoems
Hey Bukowski, You know the poem you wrote? About wanting to be a writer? How if it doesn't spill From your guts, Then don't do it? Well, **** you! Not all us Poets are street-corner Prophets spewing in lyrical tongues, Made of alliterations and metaphors. For some, the poem Is agonizing. A slow-burn cancer, That eats at our minds, our souls Seeping out the walls. It doesn't burst forth like some jail break; More like that guy, from the movie with Morgan Freeman, Who crawls through miles of **** Just to get to freedom. My poems may look And smell Like **** It may have taken them a while To crawl to freedom. But they did.
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May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
Hey Bukowski
Hey Bukowski, You know the poem you wrote? About wanting to be a writer? How if it doesn't spill From your guts, Then don't do it? Well, **** you! Not all us Poets are street-corner Prophets spewing in lyrical tongues, Made of alliterations and metaphors. For some, the poem Is agonizing. A slow-burn cancer, That eats at our minds, our souls Seeping out the walls. It doesn't burst forth like some jail break; More like that guy, from the movie with Morgan Freeman, Who crawls through miles of **** Just to get to freedom. My poems may look And smell Like **** It may have taken them a while To crawl to freedom. But they did.
john-hill
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john-hill
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 11:03 AM UTC
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